n. pl. bi·op·sies
1. The removal and examination of a sample of tissue from a living body for diagnostic purposes.
2. A sample so obtained.
tr.v. bi·op·sied, bi·op·sy·ing, bi·op·sies
To remove (tissue) from a living body for diagnostic purposes.

That's how my morning started. Nothing serious -- just a quick check to make sure that the cyst that has taken up residence under my ear is, in fact, sebaceous and not harboring any malignancy before having it removed. Again. This time, though, there will be cutting involved instead of just going with the old "poke-n-squeeze" procedure. Yes, the first attempt was made by a professional. Professional pimple popper... wasn't that a Seinfeld episode? Anyhoo, the first attempt apparently didn't take, because I am now growing a second head. So this time we will be going with the cut-and-or-possibly-burn route. The procedure is deemed "surgery", so I will be under strict orders to not lift, heft, or push anything heavier than 10 pounds for a week. In other words, I am looking for a nanny/housekeeper who can handle a full week of chasing LG whilst being followed by Monk's female counterpart.

Prediction? There will be much sighing. Sighing by the poor soul who braves our chaotic realm, drawn this way as LG whizzes by creating his own spectacular gravitational pull only to be pushed that way as my brain begins the arduous task of determining which it the lesser of two evils: disobeying the "rules" laid out by the medical professional that I trust enough to let take a knife to my face or let that ball of cat hair continue to grow because apparently it is either invisible to everyone but me or no one else in the friggin' place recognizes 1) the vacuum, 2) what a vacuum is used for, or 3) that THERE IS A REALLY BIG BALL OF CAT FUR OVER THERE AND IF WE DON'T DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, IT WILL EVENTUALLY TAKE OVER THE WORLD AND THEN DON'T COME WHINING TO ME ABOUT ALL THE OVERTIME YOU HAVE TO SPEND WORKING FOR THOSE EVIL CAT-HAIRBALL OVERLORD BASTARDS. No doubt LG and BG will do their fair share of sighing too. Out of shear ecstasy for having someone to play with who is not distracted by meaningless bits of puff on the rug and for the rapidly lightening effect that the entire process will undoubtedly have on the bank account, respectively. Although either scenario is plausible in BG's case.

But first things must, naturally, happen first, and so a little piece of me was sucked out and sent off to a laboratory where it will be splayed open under microscopes and whatnot to determine it's putridity which will, in turn, determine when, how, and if the above mentioned surgery will take place. Not at all unlike going to therapy, I decided while waiting for the good doctor to prepare his needle(s) for step 1. Bit by bit, bi-week by bi-week, pieces of me are being offered up for scrutiny and then sorted based on their degree of malignancy. I'm slowly starting to form an image of the balance that I started out so desperately seeking. The thing is that the closer I get to seeing the big picture, the less I'm sure that it's really what I want. What is so appealing about normal, I ask myself, standing off to the side as my brain and my stomach resume lobbing thought grenades at each other.
B: It's not just about you. Balance will benefit everyone around you.
S: Why should I have to submit my quirks so that everyone else benefits? Why shouldn't they all submit to me? I like my quirks. They make me special, unique.
B: What kind of example are you setting for LG? Shouldn't he have the option to develop his own neuroses, rather than inheriting yours?
S: Come on, these neuroses have served generations of women in my family and served them well. No locked up loonies in loonie bins as far back as we care to remember.
B: But were they happy? Were the people around them, their children, happy?
S: Happiness, schmappieness. Normal is what you're used to. And you have to admit that my lists and graphs and charts are nothing short of spectacular!
B: What about the time spent on those lists and graphs and charts? What about the time it takes to check off all those little boxes? Time wasted! Time you could be spending building memories and experiencing life.
S: What about all the time that is wasted without those lists and boxes? All the time spent going in circles because I have no clear direction? What about the chaos and clutter that has to be sorted through then? If there's not a place for everything and everything isn't in it's place, how the hell can I find anything?

The battle rages, more furious and frenzied until Every Other Tuesday arrives and I pop the top off my head and dump the shrapnel on the floor. Each session is greeted with equal parts dread and anticipation. Part of me is proud of the progress that I'm making, thrilled because I'm learning to identify when I'm going overboard in one direction. But an equal part of me is, at best, ambivalent. Resigned to continuing on this journey, but not liking it one little bit. Kinda like poking at a bruise again and again and again. Wincing with every prod until, hey! It doesn't hurt anymore. And somewhere deep down you're kind of sad when the twinge goes away, desensitized into a state of normal. Frenzy replaced by balance; drama supplanted by reality. Most sessions I leave discharged and depleted. Depleted, yet somehow content with that emptiness. So I'm getting somewhere, right?

And all of that kind a makes this whole process a bit biopsy-esque, doesn't it? My bits of muck get smeared out into thin layers of posts to be scrutinized and dissected. You, you are always gentle and loving, sincere and honest with your assessment. Someday I want to be just like you.


1 comment:

Lenka said...

First, you're in trouble because I haven't already heard about the whole conjoined twin separation thing. But since I Love you and I AM the BIG SISTER, I've come up with a solution anyway...

SEND LG to AUNT LENKA (we'll play with sticks and frogs and ride the gator and Jiro and... nothing to worry 'bout there) and then you can go to a spa for the required recovery time, (no cats, therefore no hairballs) and BG can stay at home. He only has to hire a housekeeper for ONE day, (the day before you come home.) Work in a few sessions with the good doctor while you're recovering and then you'll come home all cured. Only 1head, which has been emptied of all drivel and drek, which will mean that you'll no longer even care about the cat hair. Your precious offspring will have a WHOLE new outlook on life which will include MUD!!!! LOTS OF MUD, but since you'll be cured it won't matter. BG won't have had to spend either the extremely long time with or money on the housekeeper so He'll be happy and ... AND THEN YOU JUST SIT BACK AND WATCH THOSE UNICORNS PRANCE OUT WITH THE FAIRIES ON THEIR BACKS!! btw i'm making you a cute white jacket with looooong arms too, so that you really can be just like me when I grow up!!

Let me know how it goes and remember that I LOVE YOU SOOOO MUCH!! And you KNOW where I'm at if you need me!!!

p.s. YOU KNOW the offer to keep bubby is totally sincere if you think we could make it work. and YOU KNOW i would LOVE it and it's going to happen someday anyway, so why not get him used to it?